Through the Eyes of a Child

Click, click, click. For a second I could imagine my shoes had smooth metal plates on the bottom. I wasn’t just a kid in a bright pink wind breaker whose mom curled her bangs for 1…2…3…4…5…6…7… seconds every morning. No, I was a princess dancing on clouds. The Lawrence Welch show promised that somewhere little girls could grow up with bouffant hairstyles and magical shoes that clicked faster than you could think. I scuffled my way along the rough pavement, a car blaring its outrageous horn. Blue and white platform-esque sneakers, that’s what my shoes really were. When my grandma bought them for me, I knew they were sinful. Only girls with not enough clothes who sang bad songs wore shoes like this. The mind of a 6-year old is a mysterious place.

On a dirty old street downtown I walked, unfamiliar with the weight of responsibility and care. A street where the asphalt is cracking and broken, and you can kick the little hunks of it down the sidewalk if you want. The buildings were all tall, and old, and had long broken windows up top. I bet they hadn’t been washed in years. I bet there would be dead flies in them, the kind you kill with your thumb when there’s not a flyswatter around.

There used to be a little bread shop downtown in my city. A black silhouette of a woman carrying a loaf of bread, Aunt Millie. Sometimes I thought she might be real, still breaking bread in the world. Maybe she was under a magical spell that kept her caught in the illuminate box. My mom would let us go in and pick something out. I would always get a bag of nearly expired powdered doughnuts, because you got the most doughnuts for the least amount of money ($0.33).

The first time I went to the theater, I was entranced with the magic of its golden lights, rich red velour carpeting, and intricate staging. One of the first shows I saw was about Helen Keller. During intermission, I went into the bathroom and decided I was Helen Keller too. For the next few minutes, I kept the ladies in the bathroom entertained by closing my eyes, mumbling jibberish, then grabbing and signing into people’s hands.

I always loved audition time at the local theater. I felt like an angel singing on a dimly lit stage with an old worn upright piano plunking out accompaniment. Auditions were always more fun than actual rehearsal later. At rehearsal you had to remember blocking, and lines, and choreography, and sometimes people would come in hung-over or high, and that usually made the director angry.

My daddy used to read to us every night. We’d all climb into mom and dad’s bed, and daddy would read about missionaries, kids who solved mysteries; his voice heightening the drama of the complicated plots. Sometimes, he’d read us the Bible. God was like the hero of my favorite fairy tales back then. I was in every story.

We didn’t need toys when I was little. Some cast off clothing or a ball and an empty parking lot were enough to keep me and my friends entertained for hours. It was always exciting right after a storm hit too, especially if it knocked a tree over. We’d collect the branches and make houses out of them. My friends and I were usually orphans, running away from a cantankerous overseer at the orphanage. We’d live off bruised apples from my neighbor’s tree, the leaves of Hostas making our fine dining china. I had a herd of imaginary horses, and also swans. I’d sit on the old swing set with chipped paint for hours just swinging and imagining that I was flying through a brightly colored shimmering sky away from the dark dragons that were in pursuit.

Imagination.

Sometimes I forget what it’s like to truly wonder. I wish I could see through my 6-year old eyes once again and bask in the mystery and adventure of the most commonplace event. I wish I could view God through that wonder. I wish for that innocence and for that awe, for that trust. Thinking about this reminded me of something my brother David wrote during his sophomore year at college.

“What has happened to the childlike amazement of wondering about the mystery of God, where even thinking about thinking about it confounds the mind? Of loving the Bible for its amazing stories, its powerful messages of hope and redemption, its amazing poetry, instead of only its theology?

We are so minuscule, so pitiful, so incompetent compared to God what hope can we ever have of grasping all of God's wonder, or even most of it? We are like children, infants when it comes to our understanding.

This is what I have been struggling with this evening as I've been reading through common stories in the bible - Gideon, David, the woman at the well. I too often trick myself into thinking I've got it together because I have my theology together, but that isn't it at all.

I need to become like a child."

"…unless you change and become like a little child, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." -Jesus

Little Girls, Maple Leafs, and Entrepreneurship

Saturday morning I had coffee with my debate coach and his wife at a little Starbucks in the middle of a Barnes & Noble bookstore. It was awesome, but you probably realize that has nothing to do with little girls, maple leaves, or entrepreneurship. Thus I will not talk about my coffee date here, but rather the drive home from this coffee date.

I’m on this little back road when suddenly I hear kiddos making some enormous racket. Slowing down to see what's going on, I see three little girls standing on the inside of a waist high wire fence, jumping up and down on broken lawn chairs, and madly waving a wet piece of cardboard.

Being the inquisitive individual I am I realize it’s not the normal Saturday activity of youngsters to jump around with wet cardboard at fences. Hmm… maybe they were trying to sell something, but there wasn’t a lemonade stand like I often see around my neighborhood. Regardless, I turn around and pull over to go talk to them.

As I walk up to the fence, I see their cardboard sign reads in big bold sharpie markerings, “LEAFS FOR OXYGEN!” (leafs for $0.25 you get 20 leafs)

Ah. Now I get it. The wet cardboard is a marketing campaign. Needless to say I am impressed.

“Hey girls, I see you’re selling leaves, huh?”

“Oh yes,” pipes up the ringleader, “They help you breathe, and you get 20 of them for $0.25”

“Ah, well I have a dollar here. So, could I please have a dollars worth of leaves?”

“Whoa…” gasps the littlest one. “That’s… uh… whoa. That’s 80 leaves!”

The ringleader speaks again, “Wow, that’s so much money, we should just give her the whole bag!”

They hand me a giant Ziploc bag full of leaves (the bag probably cost more than I paid for the leaves, haha). I smile and say thank you, and head back to my car. As I open my door, I hear one of them yell, “We’re rich! Let’s go get more leaves!” Two of them race back to collect leaves while the other starts jumping up and down with the wet cardboard again.

Now, I understand that I may have been the only consumer of their extremely valuable product that day, but even so, it was an amazing experience. They were probably able to buy a whole candy bar and a half with that dollar I gave them, but more importantly, maybe it sparked some imagination. I remember selling flowers and paper airplanes and shredded newspapers to relatives at family get togethers when I was that age. It may have been stupid, but I’ll never forget the feeling of one of my imaginative ideas being successful.

So, this was my story about little girls, maple leaves, and promoting entrepreneurship. Maybe someday one of them will own a multi-million dollar company, and will remember me, and will give me a million dollars for buying their leaves when they were seven.

Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. Oh well. At least I can breathe better now with my oxygen promoting leafs.

[By the way, if you get the sudden feeling your air passages are constricted at an astronomical capacity, I brought the bag of oxygen leafs back to school with me and I'm willing to share. Please note that this request should only be made under situations of genuine medical concern.... Or if you just want one to Scotch tape to your door, that works too.]

Tessera

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I Need You... Even in the Cornfields...

I’m one of those people who thrive on constant activity. I work best under pressure and more efficiently under fast approaching deadlines. When my stress level is through the roof, that’s when I make the most progress. This isn’t necessarily because I’m a procrastinator (though I do have to watch that on occasion) it’s just that I like to take on more than I can handle. Often.

Here I sit in the cornfields of Ohio, and guess what? I’m still tempted to do that; crowding my schedule so darn full I don’t have time to eat or sleep. To an extent, that’s what I’ve done in the past month or so as I’ve started on this journey we call college. In a way, I’ve tried to fit God into a little box that won’t conflict with the rest of my schedule. I’ve got one thing to say; that doesn’t work so well.

It’s amazing, but even here at a Christian college, where I go to chapel every day, I’m already involved with Christian ministries, I get Christianity preached at me in every class, and I’m surrounded by Christians all the time, even here, I can still lose sight of my Savior.

But God never lets us get far, does he. We start to wander, and he takes his fishing-pole with the nasty hook at the end and grabs us, reeling us back in kicking and screaming. That happened to me again today.

Through a providential set of circumstances beyond my control, I didn’t get to go to the church I wanted to this morning. At 8:19am, I’m sitting outside of my dorm with no car, no ride, no anything to get myself to a church. Being my very ambitious and determined self, my first thought was, “Oh woe is me, I don’t feel good anyway, guess I’ll just go back to bed, sleep until noon, maybe do homework, or watch dumb videos on You Tube.”

Then this little voice inside started yelling at me, “You wimp. Get some back bone. Go to church.”

“Eh, church,” I thought to myself, “I’m just going to hear some redundant worship chorus, led by some wannabe musician, and then get a nice dose of 20 minutes of watered-down Bible teaching. Nah, I think I’ll sleep. Besides, I don’t even have a church to go to…”

It was then that this big white bus pulled up in front of the Dixon Ministry Center. “What? A bus? What’s the bus for?”

The little voice kept talking… “If you’re so curious, go check it out. You’re other options are lame.”“Fine. I guess I’ll go chat with the driver… see what kind of havoc they’re trying to wreak on campus.”

So I walk over to the bus. Rather than just chatting it up with the driver, though, he opens the door and tells me to get in. I do so, hesitantly, and see a couple people I’ve talked to a few times on campus in there. I sit down and we leave. “Okay God, if you really wanted me on this bus so badly, I guess I can give you a few hours of this morning.”

We drive. And we drive. And eventually we end up at a little church in Dayton, Ohio. I go in with a bunch of other college students, and ya know, the people are friendly and whatnot. They smile, and make me fill out this little interrogation card because I’m a guest.

The service starts, and the pastor gets up and introduces this elderly man who he says is speaking today. I’m ecstatic. Really…

Come to find out, the little old man was a missionary. He and his wife had just retired after serving in multiple countries in Central America for 43 years. The church I was sitting in was their sending church, and he was doing a walk through his entire 43 years of ministry during this service.

He began to talk, to tell his story about all the churches they started, all the places they lived, the buildings they built, the times their lives had been threatened because of their faith, the friends they lost, the civil wars they’d barely lived through, the people they lead to Jesus. They were both little and white haired, but they both had the biggest smiles as they talked about the faithfulness of this God they served.

The more I listened, the more I didn’t hear two old people rambling on and on, instead I heard the message of two people chasing passionately after God. Even when it wasn’t convenient. Even when it threatened to break their hearts and take their lives. When they couldn’t get food during a hurricane, they didn’t talk about their own circumstances; they talked about how their souls ached for those around them. When they were done, with tears in their eyes, the little old man just ended it like this:
“To God be all the glory and all the honor - Let my life be nothing but a gift to my precious Savior.”

And then it hit me. Even though I didn’t hear some rousing sermon from a preacher this morning, I heard the message of the lives of two people who were completely sold out to loving God and sharing that love with others.

It was so humbling; humbling because it showed me that packing a huge agenda into a day isn’t what God wants from me. He doesn’t need me to be involved in every org, or have every minute of every day scheduled out to perfection. He just wants my heart. He wants my time. He wants me to care about the things he cares about, to love as he loves, to serve as he served. He doesn’t want a girl who can do more in a day than some people do in a week. He just wants a girl who will sit at his feet and listen when he calls. He wants a girl who’s more concerned about him and others than her schedule and her plans.

I was reminded of the passage in Acts 20 that says “I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord has given me – the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace.”

Don’t ever let me lose sight of why I’m here. I don’t need my agenda, dear God, I just need you.

Lessons from Barney the Dinosaur

She couldn’t be missed. No, I’m serious, she couldn’t be missed. In a neon purple shirt and green capris that looked like they belonged in a blacklight arcade, my siblings and I were absolutely sure we had met Barney – and at the Grand Canyon no less! We inconspicuously collected pictures of this unassuming foreign tourist via a few strategically placed “scenery” shots. Barney had made my day. Little did I know, though, that this joke would come back to bite me in the bum.

To be honest, I could care less about fashion. You’ll never see my wardrobe on the cover of Vogue or anywhere in that near vicinity. However, even with my lack of fashion prowess, I guess I might still be able to fall into the “acceptable” category as far as societal norms are concerned. (This I assume only because I’ve taken my share of infatuated Abercrombie/Aero/AE 7^th graders to the mall and they’ve yet to run screaming from my presence. Oh, and on multiple occasions I’ve had people tell me I don’t dress “Like a homeschooler” whatever the heck that means…)

Why anyone would spend $70 on a pair of jeans continues to blow my mind. I prefer to create my wardrobe from thrift stores, clearance racks, antique shops, and random things I find at garage sales. My sister likes to classify my clothing. She labels it with things like, “Oh, that’s…unique,” or “That’s…interesting” or better yet, “Holy, that thing looks like it dropped out of a dumpster in the 60’s!”

Oh well. I suppose I’m used to being looked at oddly. In fact it was just a few days ago a guy friend of mine proclaimed, “Wow Heidi Benson, there is something wrong with you. If we looked up the word ‘abnormal’ in the dictionary, your picture would probably be there.”

My response is always the same. “Tell me again who makes up these ‘normalcy standards’ in the first place?” …Anyway, back to Barney. I have this purple shirt. I like this purple shirt. Granted, it is a little on non-standard side, but I still like it.

So I wear this shirt one day while I’m working with about 75 missionary kids. All is well until this little 5-year-old girl decides she must speak her mind. “Miss Heidi, you look like Barney…hahaha!!!”

I grin and say thanks, because what else do you do when a 5-year-old tells you look like Barney? Hmm? Ever been in that situation? Thought not. She goes on to tell me this throughout the day; after class, during lunch (where her mom gives an apologetic smile and tries to shut up the little chatter box.) I love it though. Just like the tourist lady, I guess I’ve got a little bit of Barney in me too.

Thankfully, God can use a girl who at 17 has probably made more fashion faux pas then some people make in a lifetime. Unlike America’s Next Top Model, God takes all types: the prep with the Rolex watch to boot, the skinny rag tag nerd, the smelly fisherman, the greatest king, and yes, He can even use girls like me who on occasion look like they got stuck in the wrong decade (or century for that matter.)

This is just one of many reasons my God never ceases to amaze me. The hippie, the gangster, the president of the country club, the orphaned child, the jocks, the Goths, the skater boys, the electrician, the lesbian, veterinarian, and even the cantankerous old guy in the nursing home. God loves them all the same.

I’d be the first to admit that I have my fair share of complications, quirks, and abnormalities. Yet the more I come to understand and know my God, the more I smile when people look at me strangely, tell me I’m weird, ignore me all together, or even call me Barney.

As ironic as it may seem, God often chooses the misfits, the outcasts, and the rejects to work through for His glorification. “God chose the foolish things of this world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of this world to shame the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things – and the things that are not – to nullify the things that are.” (1Cor. 1:27)

I was recently asked how I manage to consistently exude confidence. The answer to that is pretty simple… I’ve given up trying to maintain a good personal self-image. My security is no longer comprised of what people say about me, what I look like, wear, or even how I feel on a particular day. I’ve found my confidence in a source much greater than any label a designer could possibly slap on a piece of clothing. My confidence comes from the One who created the universe just by speaking.

So as crazy as this may sound, I rejoice in my oftentimes whacked out ways. Besides, observing and on occasion being grouped with one of the “abnormals,” “misfits,” and “oddlies” actually has its advantages… (How else would I constantly find interesting things to write about?) ;)

When I Think About Rain, I Think About Singing

It was one of my favorite country songs back in 8th grade. "Why does the color of my coffee match your eyes?" My friends and I used to bound through parking lots and shout those lyrics out the windows of big ugly 15 passenger vans. "Why do I see you when a stranger passes by?" Each word was accompanied by some dramatic or theatrical gesture or movement. "When it's raining, you won't find me complainin' cause..." Time to break out in three part harmony… "When I think about rain, I think about singing!"

Now, don't get me wrong, I can still tolerate country music on some level. It just doesn't infiltrate every inch of my musical database like it used to. I still occasionally have to satisfy the urge to break out with some corrupted twang version of Chicks Dig It... or other such nonsense.

But as much as I could spend the next 7.45 minutes talking about country music, that's not what initially brought about this spontaneous compulsion to write. It's raining outside right now. No, actually, a more accurate description of the weather would be the first rinse cycle of a dishwasher. You know, when all the food is still stubbornly clinging to its home on the previously white dinner plate? The first rinse cycle attempts to discipline that food by beating the tar out of it. That's how the weather is today.

Yet on this ever gloomiest of days, I still feel like singing. And no, I'm not singing about my prince charming like in the country song, (because I haven't found him yet :p). I feel like singing, because regardless of the circumstances surrounding me, I possess a fail-proof security. How awesome is that? And I didn't even have to hire body guards!

I'd be the first to admit that in many ways, I'm scared of the future. Terrified about what this first year of college will bring along with it. Frightened that I might make poor decisions when given the power to make them without the aid of my parents. Worried about even stupid stuff, like getting an overbearing roommate, or an evil professor, or even being attacked by Chuck's salad bar... (Okay, not really the last one...)

One of my favorite verses in the Bible is Psalm 46:1, which says "God is my refuge and strength, an ever present help in time of trouble. So I will not fear though the earth gives way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea." What kind of mad hope is that?! I look at all the little things that worry me. All the situations, people, and objects that act like the literal first rinse cycle pounding away at my life. It all looks somewhat scary and uncertain.

Then I look at my God.




Sorry Mr. Dishwasher. I think you've been beat. Big time. More like mega-ultra-super-monstrous-insanely huge that I can't describe big time. This is why on days like today, I can't help but grin. God is faithful. Count on it. Always. And go sing... even if it's raining.

"...Just love them like Jesus...carry them to Him..."

In all my years with working with kids, I can never remove myself from recognizing the reality that each and every one of them is special. A little girl I once met who we'll call Sarah is no different. She's been on my heart and mind today. Every so often God will bring someone to me, and there's nothing I can do but pray for them in every fleeting moment. It's her turn today.

I was only with Sarah for a few days. That doesn't seem like a significant amount of time, but I'm thankful for those few days. I didn't know much about her home life, her family, her fears, but I knew God loved her more than anything else, and he put me in her life to pass that message on.

It was the last day of camp, the day before she went home. It'd been a great week...games and activities, crafts, prizes, and all the other fun things that come with spending weeks with 3-6th graders. This morning we sat in the chapel... the last time we'd be together like this.

As I looked around the room, I couldn't help but be thankful that God gave me the chance to spend my time hanging out with kids from underprivileged or poverty stricken homes. I loved them. I loved having them teach me double-dutch. I loved watching their faces light up every time one of us gave them a hug, or told them they did a good job at something.

I loved laughing with them, playing with them, talking, and at times, crying. I loved the little grins that came when they'd try to pull pranks on me.

My heart broke when I heard some of their stories, but it gave me all the more enthusiasm for telling them about Jesus, a friend who wouldn't ever leave them. Wouldn't ever spend their grocery money on alcohol, or beat their mom. Wouldn't ever abandon them. Wouldn't ever tell them they were trash, but rather that they were more precious than anything that money could possibly buy.

As Sarah sat beside me during this last chapel, we started to sing "Here I am to worship," and little Sarah started to cry. She looked up at me with her brown eyes, and said very softly..."Heidi...I don't ever want to go back home...It's too hard there..." Her voice broke and she started to sob.

What do you do at a time like that? When words just don't seem to be enough, and you don't have anything that can help? Well, you call on the One who does have answers, and then you wrap your arms around that little girl and tell that you love her, and God loves her.

I haven't seen Sarah since that day, but I'm still praying. Still wondering if anyone's told her they love her today. Still hoping she held onto the things we talked about. And still knowing God is in control of whatever situation she might be facing.

Kids are so precious. It astounds me how many can pass them off as an annoyance or a nuisance. Sure, they have their moments when frustration is the only word that comes to mind, but the blessings they are far outweighs the frustration. If Jesus loved them and took time for them, then so will I...

"...just love them like Jesus...carry them to Him..."

Of Secretaries and 7-Eleven

The secretaries at Grace are pretty awesome. I walk into the office today to make copies of the first movement of Beethoven's Sonata in C minor... which has absolutely no relevance to anything.

"Hey you almost college girl."
"Hi Heidi."
"Hey, I see you have a new printer."
"Yeah, sure do, when do you leave for college?"
"Oh, August sometime."
"How long are you staying?"
"Eh, three years-ish. I've got 40 credits out of the way already."
"Wow. Why didn't they have that kind of deal when I was young??"
"Have you ever heard that song (hums the tune to old quartet song)"
"I would have complained about the college credits to someone for you, but I wasn't alive. And yeah, my grandparents used to have a CD of that..."
"Grandparents?!? ...I'm not THAT old yet."
"Oh...sorry. Why is the printer beeping at me?"
"It wants you to take the paper out of it."
"Um. That's kind of ironic. Isn't it's entire reality built around being useful with paper?"
"Well yes, but this is quite the snobbish printer."
"Ah...so printers are developing personalities now, eh? Pretty soon we'll be paying for them to have therapy sessions."
(Secretaries giggle...Heidi leaves office.)

(In the hall...hilarious 7th grader)
"I didn't know you had glasses."
"I don't. Technically."
"Why are you wearing them then?"
"Only for headaches and mega-reading."
"That's cool. It's almost like a fashion accessory...the glasses I mean. Those are cute pants."
"Oh, thanks..."
"Did you get them at the mall? I think all cute things come from the mall."
"I'd disagree..."
"Well most things then! We should go shopping together again!! Anyway, got to go. Bye!"

(On the way home, stop at 7-Eleven...at the counter, follow conversation occurs.)
"That'll be $1.69"
(Hands little old man at the cash register money)
"Out of $1.75... Say, that's Pina Colada and Cherry, right?"
"Yup, sure is."
"Oh, those are the best kind of Slurpees."
"I completely agree."
"You know what makes them even better though?"
"What?"
"A shot of rum!"
"Oh...well..."
"What? You don't believe me? You should try it."
"I'm only 17. It'd be illegal."
"Oh, that doesn't matter. Back when I was a boy we didn't worry about laws like that, and I'm still alive."
"Maybe so, but I don't need alcohol..."
"Why not?"
"Well, a friend of mine once told me, 'Heidi, you're not missing anything by not drinking. Boring people drink to act the way you do all the time!"
(Silence)
"$0.06 is your change. Have a nice day."
"Thank you sir."
"But I'm telling you! If you ever get yourself some rum, you should try it! It'll change the way you think."
(Walks out of 7-Eleven)

(Laughs and thinks..."Yeah, I bet it'd change the way I think...")

And this is life. Little stuff like that makes it all the more amazing. That is all.

Spring Time Chit-Chat

Okay…I need to be writing a research paper. My mind won’t hold still, so I’ve rather been amusing myself with old pictures and stories.

Something kinda-ish jumped out at me today, and it made me chuckle. I was reading in 2 Corinthians where Paul is talking about how if he must boast, he chooses to boast in his weakness because then it’s pretty obvious that success comes not from his own power, but rather from the power given to him from Christ.

This’ll make more sense in a minute, but doesn’t God have such a great sense of humor? He takes our biggest fears and insecurities, and those are the things he uses to grow us. I find that so ironic and hilarious. Happy little story from childhood…

If we go back to my elementary years, guess what my biggest fear was...? Piano. I’m serious. It was my enemy. In Kindergarten, my mom used to bribe me with M&Ms to practice. By second grade I demanded money. That request didn’t work out so well…

I freaked out whenever people asked me to play in public. Third grade recital, I pretended I was sick all day. Even did the whole “thermometer under the heat lamp” thing. Only problem; it was a mercury thermometer, and I got it too hot, so it broke, and there was mercury all over.

Yeah. I got in trouble for that one and still had to play at the recital.

Oh dear. Anyway, I hated playing in front of people. I would force my whole family into the basement whenever I practiced so they couldn’t watch me. I was a weird little kid.

Second story. We need to go back to the early debate days. My worst fear in Jr. high and the beginning of high school? Talking in front of people. My parents decided to remedy this with debate. I cried every week for a month on the way home from class. (Siblings can testify to that.) I tried to convince my parents that debaters were all mean and cruel nerds that were at least partially insane. They didn’t buy it.

So…I was thrown into this mob of people who thought it was “fun” to talk about stuff like taxes and politics. Yuck. (Somewhere in the last three years I was nerdified myself. And now somehow get tricked into doing all the public rep stuff whether it be for classes, organizations, events... Oh well.)

I just find it highly amusing that the two things I hated and feared the most (performing music and speaking in public) are now two of the things I do the most. And are also two of the things I’ll be studying in college.

It never ceases to amaze me how God takes our biggest insecurities and turns them into strengths so that when we succeed, there ain’t nothing we can do but give all the praise back to him. So let me continue to boast in my weakness, for God’s grace is made all the more wonderful when I, in and of myself, can do nothing but freak out and fail. That was Heidi’s thought of the day.

Well, that, and that canned mandarin oranges are better than canned pineapple...

He was assigned a grave...

"...with the wicked, and with the rich in his death, though he had done no violence, nor was any deceit in his mouth."

Sometimes it's when we're weakest, when we fail the most, when tears are far more fitting than smiles, and rain is greater than sunshine that God becomes most evident. It's when I'm at my worst that God's grace seems so much stronger and his kindness surpasses the few words held in my vocabulary.

It's when my heart breaks for my own selfish hypocrisy and pride, for my failure to love other people that my Father comes to me and...he. still. loves. me. ... me.

Why? I've spent days and nights in sorrowful solitude wondering that. Why should this girl so full of greed and hatred stand in the name of a perfect man and be called righteous? What right do I have to accept grace that I can never repay?

When my helpless state glares at me, I cannot help but tremble at the thought of mercy, of forgiveness... of love. I recoil at the thought of my stupidity and imperfection... but even through all this, my heavenly Father still offers me grace through the death of his own son.

Dear God, why? Why love? Why grace? Why forgiveness? Why mercy? Let me endure forever with unquenchable thirst, incomparable anguish, unremitting evil... it's what I deserve.

But no. I am loved by God and so I am offered hope.

I try to understand. I can't. No one can fully understand and grasp the expanse of God's love. I my not know why, but I'm thankful. How can I say thank you? All I have is so menial. I give my life, for it's the most I have, but even that wanes in comparison.

It's times like this one when I cannot help but fall to my knees with tears streaming down my face crying "Abba." Speechless again I fall in the presence of God's love.

"Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,
yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed." ~Isaiah 53:4-5

Guido

White. Glossy. Large… and completely invading my life.

Let me introduce you to Guido. Guido started his life as a tree: A tree that used to sit happily on a hillside. No pain. No worries. Only sunshine, light rains and cool breezes. He was a happy fellow at the time, but in life, things always change. Little did the world know that Guido would soon become the demon that possessed my entire reality…

It all started last night around 8:30pm. Laura, David, and Josh were almost home. So, I was cleaning my room…again. Rooms are a pain like that. I’m convinced they would always stay clean if we never lived in them. But we do. So they must be cleaned.

I love my room. It’s full of all my hand picked furniture from all over the country, and the world. A chest from an old friend of mine, a vanity from a family member in Colorado, curtains from a friend in Romania, and a daybed I made from the headboards my mom and sister used when they were little girls. I’m an antique nut, what can I say? There are only two drawbacks to my room. One, I’m kind of semi-locked in the basement. And two, it’s pretty much non-existent in the size category.

Anyway, back to the story. I’m cleaning my room, and out of no where, my mom and dad walk in carrying this….thing. It’s a thing alright. Looks like a giant refrigerator rejected from the 70’s. It’s in a giant cardboard box with a rhino on the front. And I’m thinking to myself, “What kind of box has a rhino on it?”

Regardless, my mother announces that my closet and under-the-bed space are too small to hold all of my clothes, so she’s going to bless me with this…thing…that someone thinks is a dresser. I protest. Strongly protest. My mother smiles and sets it in the smack dead middle of my room. I glare at the thing. It glares back. We do this for about five minutes. Then I name the thing. I name it Hugo Chavez. It reminds me a communist dictator with its bold white head completely shattering the aura of the rest of the room.

Then I decide Hugo Chavez is too powerful a name for such a miserly thing. I name it Guido instead. Guido the refrigerator dresser. My mom yells from another room, laughing, “You can take it college next year if you want, Heidi…”

Oh help my crazed mind. To make matters worse, I’ve now found the handles to this thing. They’re made of opaque white something. But I can’t really tell what it is. Probably plastic. No, definitely plastic.

Dilemma plagues me yet again. Where am I going to put this giant white refrigerator? I think about just leaving it where it is… and then decide I would be mentally damaged if I had to look at it everyday. The closet. Yes. That’s the next bright idea. By this time, my mom is back and giving me a speech about how starving children in some foreign country would be ecstatic to get a dresser. I very happily tell her she may give it to the children.

But no, Guido has been entrusted to me, she says. So… I must deal with Guido. I spend the next hour rearranging my room to make Guido’s new home, the closet, more easily accessible. Joy. I’m still trying to figure out, “Why Guido?”

“Why can’t I just buy my own dresser?” I ask my mom after all the rearranging.
“Because you have Guido, and he needs a home.” (She’s seriously enjoying this way too much. She’s like a kid with a million dollars at Disney World. I’m starting to wonder if she’s chosen Heidi torture as her new hobby. Like the way she signed me up for sweepstakes when I was out of the country…)

If you’ve ever read “The Jacket” by Gary Soto, you know what I feel like right about now. And that’s all I have to say about this situation. Thus continues my love-hate relationship with the refrigerator named Guido. The End.

P. S. I am secretly putting Guido up for adoption as of this moment. If you are lonely, he would be the perfect companion or addition to any family. He might even become a famous poet in the future and make you millions of dollars so you never have to work again. I am not worthy of his grandeur. Please save me from this great responsibility. Thank you.

Farewell to the Half-Baked and Greasy...

I’ve become frustrated recently with ever greater removal of the truly artistic from the everyday world. But what is art? Who am I to define art? Really, I am no one. I’m not an expert, and don’t claim to be one. I’m just a teenager who thinks the perception of art in a large sense has degenerated into entertainment, money, and fame.

We see toddlers splat paint on a canvas and see that become internationally acclaimed art. We see singers with no real talent shooting to the top of charts because of studio editing. We see people throw a myriad of words on a piece of paper haphazardly, and suddenly we have a new innovation in poetry or prose that obviously must hold some deep meaning. We see films breaking box office records that really have nothing more to boast than a screenplay with some raunchy sarcasm and a one night stand.

And we call this art. We call the creators of this stuff…artists; musicians, painters, writers, actors. Why? Why has our culture numbed the idea of artistry down to whoever can find a semi-creative outlet to make a fast buck? Shouldn’t art stay elevated above this?

One of my professors was lecturing today on the idea that what is “right” is nothing more than a matter of personal conviction or interpretation. Therefore, one could never make an incorrect analysis of literature, for it’s all up to personal perception. Nice. My next essay will be 5 sheets of blank white paper. “But Dr. So and so… you can’t fail my paper…it was my interpretation, and therefore must be correct.” [/sarcasm]

And they call this a college education…ah well… I have a good time arguing with my postmodernist/secular humanist friendlies. Oh school…

I love writing. As I’ve said before, I write whenever I need an avenue to channel emotion. Whenever I don’t have enough energy to ponder many things all at once, paper plays my second brain, my removable hard drive if you will. But I don’t call myself a writer. No. I believe writing is art enough to leave the title of “writer” to those who devote their lives to the passion. Not those who do it for money, or recognition, but those who do it because they love it, and because they have to.

I’ve played the piano since before my feet could touch the ground. At any given moment, I could sit down and pound out some jazz or play compositions from Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Greig, Mendelssohn, Debussy, Chopin, Brahms, yada yada. But that doesn’t make me a musician, and I don’t call myself one. Again, I really feel that term should be reserved for those who are willing to devote their lives to the study, enjoyment, love, and pursuit of musical excellence.

Excellence. Maybe that’s what’s missing. Culture as a whole has contented itself with the half-baked greasy kind of art. The kind that doesn’t require skill, passion, work, time, and effort to create, but rather the kind of “art” that can be achieved by zapping a moment of instant stimulation into an audience, and not much else.

As Gene Edward Veith once said, “The “entertain me” mindset of pop culture now governs education, politics, morality, and the church. Teachers try to entertain their students rather than educate them. Politicians craft their image like movie stars. And pastors turn their worship into entertainment and downplay theology in favor of good feelings.”

Do you ever wonder what God thinks as he looks down on American culture? All the wonderful potential and ability he has placed within the lives of each person across the country, yet we largely ignore that true beauty to instead run head first in pursuit of cheap immediate pleasure.

Oh how often we sell ourselves short. How often we accept the less than great merely out of laziness. We have become satisfied with the unsatisfactory. We’re content to look out the one inch window rather than running out, throwing up our hands, and finally seeing the vast open expanse of sky...

So farewell to the cheap imitations, the wishful thinking, the empty but nice sounding words… let us run head first toward excellence: for that is what we have been called to pursue.